clint&natasha
by kesque
Summary: "We had a death pact. I had to keep my half of the bargain. Please bury me next to my baby. Bury me in my leather jacket, jeans, and motorcycle boots. Goodbye." Natasha's Vicious, Clint's Nancy and the Avengers are their Pistols. The only rule is anarchy. Sex Pistols/Avengers
1. Chapter 1

_Clint&Natasha: Love Kills_

"Let go of me!" she shrieks as her body fights desperately for escape, her black combat boots swinging back into the shins of the officers who have apprehended her. Her politely phrased request is ignored and she unleashes a long string of curses in every language she knows. Reporters flock about them, flashing their lightning bright camera bulbs at her and making blue blotches appear in front of her eyes. Tabloid journalists, if you can even call them that, are nearly throwing their tape recorders at her wiry face. The questions are flying at her in a way that makes her head spin but one just sticks out most of all "Why did you do it, Natasha?" She thrashes again, sharp and bony elbows jutting out uncomfortably before the officers force her into the back of a cop car. She bangs her handcuffed fists on the windows until the cruiser starts to move. She slips down then, hiding in her mess of red hair.

This is Natasha Romanoff. Not her real name, but the stage name she uses when she's screaming at the crowd and her voice sounds like broken glass. She was born Natalia Romanova, but she picks Romanoff because she's the kind of nasty little punk that always gets told to Fuck Off. She figures she might as well tell people that first now. Her legs are covered by a pair of tight leather pants, held together by safety pins. The boots she wears are well abused in a way that can only infer affection. Under her white tank top she's got a rather obvious black bra covering two of her most popular assets. Around her neck is a metal padlock and don't forget, there are blood stains covering the top of that snowy white shirt.

She's a scrawny mess and it's only made more obvious when they take her mug shot. She memorizes her number to the point that it's meaningless. She uses her sharps nails to draw it into her skin with white lines that soon darken to red. They force her to change out of her clothing, leaving it as evidence now and she changes into the baggy outfit provided. Everything looks baggy on Natasha if it isn't skin tight.

Eventually, she's brought into an interrogation room where a prick with a receding hair line looks at her out of almost sympathetic eyes. Her wrists feel rubbed raw by the metal cuffs but she doesn't' complain, won't give these buggers the satisfaction of her pain. Natasha sits down in this barren room that seems to be all dull edges and bores her eyes directly into that off the man sitting across from her. She knows the effect she has on men, whether the ones who sleep in the streets or those that live menial lives with Stepford smilers. But this man doesn't fall for her act, doesn't seem fazed. But he smiles all the same and offers her his hand to shake. She ignores it but his smile doesn't fall.

"Phil Coulson" he introduces. She doesn't care and rolls her eyes. "Now Natasha, is it alright if I call you that, I know you've been through a lot so far today, but I want you to help me understand what went on at the Chelsea. I'm trying to help you." A snort exits her critical mouth.

"Can you tell me about it?" he asks, and she doesn't answer.

"Alright then, Natasha" he says after a moment, "How about we start at the beginning? Tell me about the day you first met Clint Barton".

There's a phantom weight over Natasha's chest where her padlock would be.


	2. Chapter 2

_A Few Years Earlier_

"Stark, I could drink you under the table, any time, any place" Natasha Romanoff had challenged the fucking cocky ass drummer after he'd begun to speculate why the bassist never joined her fellow Pistols in after hours drinking.

"Then tonight" he answered with a smirk that made her want to rake her nails across his face, "Come out with everyone. Put your money where your mouth is, Romanoff".

Natasha forced her burnt curls out of her face, though they fell back into it a moment later. She knew she'd regret this. "Fine" she relented, sliding her hands into the pockets of her tight, leather pants. "But only this time and if you ask me again, I'll rip your dick off and make you eat it on stage".

Bruce Banner, the guitarist, had offered a cringe at the mental image while Steve Rogers, their lead singer had offered a long sigh. He had a strong feeling that the night would end with Natasha shattering a vodka bottle and then stabbing Stark multiple times in the stupid glowing mark he'd gotten tattooed across his chest.

"You know I love it when you talk dirty to me, baby" Stark grinned, bumping his hip into hers. She whirled around, a cold fury in her eyes as she kicked over his drum kit, combat boots jingling with the chains that decorated them. "I'll see you assholes at the Carrier" she named the seedy tavern a few blocks away. Then she lifted her bass effortlessly, and left the rest of the Sex Pistols in her wake of destruction. That was the Natasha Romanoff way.

Natasha makes it to the bar around nine o'clock at night. She's tucked herself away under layers of ripped tank tops and she's got her sheared locks tucked behind her earlobes. She spots the rest of her band sharing a booth, laughing at some obviously idiotic comment that the drummer just made. She almost doesn't want to approach. She's never fit in with them, probably never will. Nick Fury had just brought her into replace the unreliable Thor Odinson and sure she was the face of the group now, but there was still a definite line between her and them.

Finally, after ordering a vodka and swallowing about half of it easily (She was Russian, after all) she begins to swagger towards the table. She can hear the jingle of her piercings and cuffs in her ears and she's about ten feet from them when a hand grips her arm. Natasha whirls around and pulls her fist back to punch who ever has touched her but when she swings, she makes contact but not with a face.

Another hand is clasped around her's, and she's shocked enough that she lets the owner of said hand pull her arm down so that they can see one another. He's wearing a cocksure smile on his face, just pretentious enough to match the gelled spikes that rest just above his scalp.

"Clint Barton" he smiles, American accent heavy on his tongue and Natasha almost snorts. She can identify this boy right off the back. College break, first time in Europe, maybe one or two friends that he's hanging out with and that stupid belief that women will instantly fall at his feet. But as she catches sight of his finely muscled arms, she might believe that maybe there has yet to be a woman who has fallen at his feet. Of course, she then recalls that he's still holding her hand captive and she yanks it back, realizing the pressure of his palm had forced her rings down into her skin, leaving heavy red marks.

"Natasha Romanoff" she answers, "now fuck off". She crushes his toe as she turns but he seems unfazed and spins her back to face him again. "Only if you're doing it with me, Nat" he smiles.

She curses thinking him and Stark would get along so bloody well.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Natasha coos, pressing up into his personal space, her breasts resting on his chest. She hears him inhale quickly and sees his Adam's apple bob. She's got the upper hand now and she's backing him into a wall now. "You'd like me jacking you off, down on my knees, making stupid doe eyes up at you. In fact, I think you feel as if you deserve that". At the mental picture she is presenting to this silly American boy, he hardens against her and she lets her hips roll ever so slightly.

She kisses him harshly before he can speak and he's off guard at first but he grips her waist and angles her lithe body so that he can gain better access. Then her teeth sink into his lower lip, drawing blood. Natasha retracts.

"The only one who will ever be on their knees is you" she smirks at him, his blood scarlet on her lips. "Call me Nat again, and you won't even be able to do that".

Natasha licks her lips and walks away.

He calls after her, "I'm not a quitter, Tasha. I'm the red in your ledger now, and I don't plan to be coming out".

She flips him off without turning and joins her band mates.


End file.
